


fall apart without me, body

by flightsofangels



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Character Study, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Pre-Episode: s03e01-02 Juno Steel and the Man in Glass, Stream of Consciousness, all characters other than nureyev are only mentioned, apparently i only know how to write character studies, basically Peter Is Repressed And Does His Makeup: the fic, ft. age anxiety, of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightsofangels/pseuds/flightsofangels
Summary: The man known to a select few as Peter Nureyev is many things. A thief when convenient, a killer when necessary. Once upon a time he was a hopeful young freedom fighter, but that child died with his guardian’s blood on his hands. For a few hopeful weeks, he was a lover, a partner, daring to let a stupid and rash and beautiful detective into his heart. Then he discovered that though his heart belonged to Juno, Juno’s was held firmly by the far more familiar chaos of the city, and Peter became something he would rather not think about.Or: Peter has some time to reflect while preparing for Nova Zolotovna's gala.
Relationships: Mag & Peter Nureyev, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	fall apart without me, body

The man currently named Peter Ransom has been sitting at his vanity for two hours. The mirror reflects a man he no longer recognizes no matter how much makeup he applies, no matter how much hair dye he uses to hide the gray hairs, and this simply will not do. For twenty years he has relied on his looks and his charm to do his work, and now where is he? Wasting away, turning gray, drowning in debts. Choking down anger and something softer that he refuses to name every time he sees the lady he’d once fallen in love with. Trying to remain calm and collected even when Captain Aurinko informs the crew that he will have to work a heist with said lady, posing as his husband, no less. File it away, he reminds himself. Deal with it later. Right now, he has a mission to prepare for. He picks up a brush and begins to apply his face for the second time now, hoping to pull together something resembling his old self.

The man known to a select few as Peter Nureyev is many things. A thief when convenient, a killer when necessary. Once upon a time he was a hopeful young freedom fighter, but that child died with his guardian’s blood on his hands. For a few hopeful weeks, he was a lover, a partner, daring to let a stupid and rash and beautiful detective into his heart. Then he discovered that though his heart belonged to Juno, Juno’s was held firmly by the far more familiar chaos of the city, and Peter became something he would rather not think about. 

A thief, still. He’s always been a thief, from the time he was a starving child on the streets of Brahma. One of his earliest memories is of stealing the purse of a rich old woman, who had foolishly left it at her table after finishing a meal. He had been hovering outside the restaurant for hours, hoping some stranger would take pity on him and give him some food, money, even just an acknowledgement of his existence. Instead, eyes avoided him and crowds parted around him as the inhabitants of Brahma ignored the starving child that was Peter Nureyev. Only six years old, yet entirely alone and deeply aware of just how little the world cared whether he lived or died. If he were to live, he knew even then, it would be because he kept himself alive. 

So when the woman got up and left, leaving her purse hanging on the back of her chair, Peter saw an opportunity. Snatched up the purse and was hidden away in an alley before the woman was any the wiser, rifling through the assorted valuables: a comms, some makeup, and more creds than he had ever seen in one place in his short life. In his child’s mind, he imagined all the things he could do with what he’d found: he could buy so much food that he would never again have to go hungry, he could buy hundreds of new shoes, he could have a big house all to himself with servants and running water and an indoor pool. 

In reality, it was barely enough to keep him going for a week, and he found himself stealing more and more as the money he took ran out again and again. Until Mag found him, that is.

At the vanity, Peter moves on from his carefully applied eyeliner to concealing the few blemishes on his skin. Other than the wrinkles forming around his eyes, on his forehead, and around his mouth, he has a handful of spots that have cropped up in the past weeks since he joined the crew of the Carte Blanche. Stress, most likely. Though this is hardly the most stress he’s been under in his life, monumental debts notwithstanding. 

When was the most stressful time of his life? Was it the brief period before he trusted Mag, always guessing when he would be alone on the streets again? Was it when he was the Angel of Brahma, hiding in plain sight and always disappearing from everyone, including himself? When he had Mag’s blood on his hands, a rare moment of thoughtless action that ended with his guardian dead and Peter once again alone? When he left behind his entire past, both fact and fiction, and became a thief without a name, without a story, without a home? 

Was it when he met Juno Steel, and no amount of filing away and compartmentalizing could keep his heart from skipping a beat when the detective’s eyes met his? When he was strapped to that table and had his mind laid out for Juno to rifle through, and he couldn’t even pretend to resent him for it, because even if he was being held captive and tortured for Miasma’s greed at least finally, finally someone would see him? Not Rex Glass, not Duke Rose, not the Angel of Brahma, but him, Peter Nureyev, the scared man who hasn’t the slightest clue of how to bring down his walls after a lifetime of locking his thoughts away in carefully organized cells.

Was it when he awoke to the sound of a door closing and the bed growing cold and his heart sinking in his chest with a familiar dread? 

His skin is as smooth as it gets these days, now. The crows’ feet and frown lines, much as he hates to admit it, won’t be hidden for this mission. Even if he had the creds to spare for cosmetic surgery, no knife could cut away the exhaustion in his eyes or the weight of time on his shoulders. Just as no matter how many dyes he uses on his hair the grays are always there, visible or not, the fact that his time as a handsome and charming young criminal is running out is inescapable. 

He used to be young and beautiful, and that kept him safe. After Mag, when he realized he could trust no one but himself, that if he could be the best at what he did then he need not rely on anyone, he could charm his way through any situation. Robbing an old aristocrat blind, stealing princeless valuables from under the nose of a visiting diplomat, seducing a lonely heiress and making off with her fortune in the dead of night, these are all simply what Peter Nureyev, the thief without a name, does. Steals the hearts of his marks using his charisma and charm and quiet confidence, relying on being likeable and trustworthy enough to gain what he needs. Knowing that thieving is a dance with many movements that must be carefully choreographed, but that the audience will like him much more if he is beautifully costumed without a single hair out of place. 

And now look at him. An old man, clinging to his days of glory because he can’t admit to having nothing to show for them. Had he ever thought ahead to what the future would hold for the prolific nameless thief? He supposes not. He had foolishly convinced himself that aging was something that happens to other people, like homes and families and safety. Surely Peter Nureyev, the master criminal that spent a lifetime hiding in plain sight, could hide from time as well.

The final step in his makeup routine, the last touch in an ever-growing process of hiding that old man from the world, is applying his lipstick. He rifles through his extensive collection of reds and blacks and golds and dozens of other shades until he finds the perfect match for this Monsieur Dauphin he will soon embody: a deep crimson to match his nails and contrast with the gold on his eyes and his clothes. 

If some hidden part of him bitterly hopes that the color will distract Juno -- despite how desperately Peter needs this mission to succeed -- then that is between himself and his aging reflection. 

Peter carefully applies the crimson to his lips, then wipes away the excess so as not to stain his teeth. His teeth, he supposes, are something he won’t be losing any time soon. Fox’s teeth, he’s been told. Attractive, yes, but dangerous. Poised to strike at any moment, deceptive and razor-sharp. He does at times regret having them sharpened, an impulse decision in some misguided attempt to reclaim his individuality after Mag, as they are something of an identifying mark, but he allows himself this. Just as some will pierce their skin or tattoo themselves in the process of making their bodies into something resembling a home, Peter claimed his teeth. Sharpened them into points as soon as he had the money, to tell the world that he has been bitten before and is not afraid to bite back. He’s gained some subtlety since then, he hopes. A master of disappearances is an unwise canvas for marks of individuality. 

With the final touches added, Peter’s reflection seems... almost correct. Not quite, as the foundation is creased where his skin sags with age and his hair is slightly too dark and his eyes have far too much darkness in them, but he can at least recognize himself. He sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath, then moves to the suit laid out on his bed. Gold and ornate, presumably chosen to complement Juno’s attire, whatever that may be. Peter Nureyev has been set aside, Peter Ransom has been tucked away, and Monsieur Dauphin is prepared for a long day. If all goes well, Peter Ransom will celebrate with his imitation of a family and Peter Nureyev will be one step closer to clearing his debts. 

Juno’s image comes into his mind at that, his scarred face and his sharp eye and sharper mind, his laugh and the way his voice cracks when he’s panicking, the way he used to seek out Peter’s gaze and how he now avoids him even at Captain Aurinko’s so-called family meetings. Peter finds himself indulging the ache in his chest at the thought of the former detective only briefly before he files it away, firmly pushes it into a corner and locks it behind a heavy door. For future consideration, he reminds himself. Now is not the time for his feelings toward Juno, whatever those feelings may be. Now is the time to prove himself in this family he now belongs to, now is the time to look out for himself above anyone else. Just as he did on the streets of Brahma. Just as he did when he was once again alone and had nothing to keep himself afloat other than the skills he had been taught by Mag. Just as he’s done countless times since then, the thief with no name and no home and no family, trusting on no one but himself to keep him alive. Because regardless of how his reflection may betray him, one thing about Peter Nureyev will remain constant: he will never again rely on anyone but himself. 

The clock on his bedside table tells him it’s time for his mission to begin. Monsieur Dauphin glides out of the room with a practiced elegance, and anyone else he has been is hidden away. The thief without a name is a master of disappearances, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i've recently become infected with penumbra brainrot and i have a lot of feelings about peter nureyev


End file.
